


Norway Rules

by Honeymull



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-27
Updated: 2011-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-18 17:51:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honeymull/pseuds/Honeymull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Mats doesn't know when to let something go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Norway Rules

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this clip](http://youtu.be/IpP6B_IEEwE) \- in which it was decided that Mats was *definitely* mocking Henrik for needing a coat. Norwegian hardiness versus Swedish, and all that.

He's been at it all week since the walk in to Bell Centre.

The camera only caught part of it, Hank finds out later. It had zeroed in on Mats in just his jeans and sweater and hat (christ, that ridiculous hat. Hank doesn't know if he wants to burn it or get it framed so he can laugh at it after every shitty game) and he knows now there was a pointed comment or two from the broadcast aimed at Mats to put on a goddamn coat, but that doesn't even begin to cover it.

Hank heard Derek refer to Mats as a pit bull, a while back. It applies on the ice, certainly, no doubt about that, but Hank's been finding out it applies to a whole lot of other aspects to Mats' personality.

Like his pride in being Norwegian. Like his tenacity when he thinks he has an advantage he normally wouldn't, the way he presses and *presses* on that. It's part of what makes him so great at hockey, that relentless pressure he puts on weaknesses.

And really, Hank wouldn't call it a *weakness* that he likes to be *warm*, jesus, in the middle of winter in goddamn *Montreal*. He'd call that “being normal” and “not trying to catch sick mid-season” and a lot of other things, but for Mats, it's an opening on which he can pounce.

Mats had made an idle comment to Derek as they were walking out that see, in Norway, this kind of weather was nothing. Hank had even smiled at that, a few paces ahead where Mats couldn't see.

And then Mats had added in a voice Hank *knows* he meant to carry, “Not like Swedes, yes, all bundled into blankets to keep from a chill. Ppff.”

Hank turned around at that and raised an eyebrow at Mats. Mats had grinned back unrepentantly and took the three quick strides it took for him to fall in step with Hank. He reached out a hand and batted at the sleeve of Hank's wool coat. “What is this?” he'd asked, eyes alight with the taunt, “Surely the brave Swedish men don't feel the cold?” He batted at Hank again and Hank humored him, shook his head and smiled.

“What, and *you* don't 'feel the cold'?”, he returned, lapsing into Swedish indulgently and drawing his elbow out of Mats' reach as he went for it again. “Do you 'feel' how ridiculous that hat looks with that sweater?”

Mats had laughed and tilted his head back behind them to address an oblivious Derek in English. “He's changing the subject. Very telling.” He straightened and pointed a finger at Hank. “Norwegians are tougher than Swedes. Admit it.”

Hank laughed at that, then, both at the sheer absurdity of Swedes being inferior in *any* way to Norwegians, and at the dramatically determined way Mats made his pronouncement. He slanted a fond glance down at Mats and said, “I am *choosing* to wear my coat and gloves because they cost more than every piece of my equipment put together does, and because they go with my suit.” He adjusted his gloves without thinking, and Mats' gaze slid down to the smooth leather as he did. Hank saw him swallow and go pink. The cold, obviously, was affecting him after all.

Hank flexed his fingers experimentally, and the gloves moved silently, fluidly. Mats' eyes were still trained on them, until Hank cleared his throat lightly. “I'm sure you're free, of course, to borrow a coat from Sean when you develop frostbite in your extremities.”

Mats tilted his chin up and raised his eyebrows in faux dismissal. “Swedes. So full of excuses.” He tsk'd pityingly, eyes amused, then slipped past Hank to shove open the team-entrance doors of the Bell.

Hank had thought that would be the end of it, but no. No, Mats keeps it up, all during practice the next day, making Brandon laugh loud and clear when he skates past the goal on a drill and gestures expansively to all of Hank's extra equipment in an obvious “See?” motion, shouting across the ice to Brandon that Swedes needed more *coddling*, which is why Hank wanted to be a goalie: more gear, more warmth.

Hank huffs out a hot breath against the bars of his cage and ignores him, concentrating on the stretch in his calves as he skates back and forth across his crease.

Mats doesn't let up. Little comments, sprinkled here and there, that seem harmless enough, especially when they're paired with Mats' dark eyes sparkling up at him with a knife-sharp edge of humor in them. He knows he can get away with it, too, which means Hank is left making replies that refuse to rise to Mats' bait, that are forced-casual and nonchalant.

Mats pushes him, leans on the bruise, because that's just what he *does*, until Hank is lit-up with a bright almost-frustration at the incessant taunts delivered slyly, always under a fan of eyelashes looking up at him, under the messy fringe of his hair as he sends a slow smile Hank's way after tearing down his *heritage*. Jesus, it's impossible to snap back at the kid, and Hank doesn't want to, anyway, not really, but -

Tonight, practice went well. Hank was in his element, allowed barely any shots, but he also saw firsthand how close so many of them came to going in. A good balance between his own skill and that of the rest of his team, and he's wired happily afterward, now. He takes a longer shower than usual, and there's not a lot of guys left in the locker room when he gets out.

Prusty makes stupid conversation with him as he waits for Brian to get his shit into his duffel, and Hank runs a towel through his hair, makes acknowledging hums in answer before Brian hoists his bag, tilts his head toward the door. Prusty nods good-night at Hank as he and Brian leave together, and then Hank is left to get dressed by himself in the locker room.

He's buttoning his suit jacket and shrugging on his good wool coat when he hears a huff of laughter from the doorway. He straightens his cuffs carefully before raising his head, and yes, of course – Mats is lounging in jeans and a hoodie against the door-frame, hands in his pockets.

“Is it that cold in *here*, even? You Swedish are so *sensitive* to these things,” he comments laconically, tone perfectly innocent and grin perfectly sharkish.

Hank tosses him a flat smile, and Mats comes up off the door-frame. “Oh, come on. All you have to do is tell me that Norwegians are just -” Mats shrugs easily, “Hardier stock. Case in point...” He gives Hank a once-over, cataloging his thick coat and heavy pants, his upturned collar and the gloves he has yet to put on, dangling from one hand.

Hank opens his mouth to argue, and then thinks better of it. He closes his mouth abruptly and narrows his eyes at Mats. Mats meets his eyes with a smirk, challenge still sparking behind it and Hank thinks, *he's never going to let this go*.

He stalks forward, snaps on his gloves and reaches Mats right as he's taking a breath to say something, and whether it's more jokes or taunts or *comments*, Hank doesn't *care*, not at this point. He backs Mats into the locker room wall with sheer body presence and then shoves one gloved hand firmly over Mats' mouth before he can speak.

Mats' eyes go wide, wide – and then he slumps back against the wall and his eyes roll briefly up into his skull.

Hank tries to talk and finds he can't. It passes quickly but he's breathing hard already, and his throat feels dry. “No more jokes about the cold,” he commands roughly. Mats comes back to himself enough to try an eyeroll and Hank presses his hand tighter against his mouth, his thumb holding at the hinge of Mats' jaw. It makes a shudder run through Mats' body, obvious, and that's what Hank's been waiting for. He smiles.

“Mm, what, now are *you* cold? Ttsk. After all this...” Hank sighs, pretends to be put-upon. He's starting to sweat under his coat and jacket, but he ignores it. He works his other hand into Mats' jeans, instead, watching his face carefully for signs that he's been reading this all wrong, but Mats just groans, the helpless rumble of it bouncing against Hank's glove as it leaves his throat, and then god, he spreads his *legs* for Hank's hand.

Hank knows he's probably grinning smugly and he knows it's probably not his nicest expression, but the cut-off sounds Mats makes when the sleek leather of Hank's gloved hand finds his cock are absolutely exquisite. Hank runs the palm of his hand over the head, exploratory and delighted when Mats begins pulling in hot, desperate breaths through his noise, grunting into the hand at his mouth and trying in vain to rock his hips into the one at his cock.

Hank shushes him, feeling amused and vindictive, and tightens his hand on a long stroke from base to tip that makes Mats' head thunk back against the wall. Doing it again gets him something close to a whimper, and Hank stops all movement. He keeps Mats pinned, still, doesn't take away the hand against his mouth, but he only lightly cradles Mats' dick in his other hand. He wants to know he has Mats' attention, and after a moment of Mats visibly fighting to focus his blurry eyes on Hank, he does.

“It seems,” Hank says thoughtfully, “that Norwegians are perhaps not as tough as they thought they might be.” He runs a careful finger under Mats' dick, across the seam of his balls, back further, and *presses* lightly. Mats' eyes slam shut and he rises up on his toes to get more, whining. Hank feels a heavy drop of precome spatter onto the glove at his wrist bone, and he absently concedes that he'll have to buy another pair of gloves. For now, though -

Mats' hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat and he's moaning almost non-stop, his body jerking into Hank's touch as best it can. His eyes are at half-mast, unfocused and out-of-it, and Hank takes a chance. He loosens his grip on Mats' jaw momentarily, catches Mats' head as it lolls on his shoulders, and slides two fingers inside the wet heat of Mats' mouth.

He gives Mats' cock a rough several jerks at the same time, and Mats *gasps*, sucks Hank's fingers in with abandon, slurping around the leather like it's – god, like they're *cock*, and Hank isn't going to get this image out of his mind for a goddamn *decade*, Mats all spread out and slutty and sucking on Hank's designer gloves, tongue working, lazy, around the knuckles like he doesn't want to miss a spot. He bites hazily after a moment at the seam running across the tip of Hank's finger, small white teeth against the dripping-damp black of the glove, and it's such an agonizingly pretty picture Hank's balance goes to hell and he leans in to brace a knee against the wall behind Mats.

He's only an inch or so closer like this, but now he can hear how Mats' breathing is closer to sobbing, how it hitches every time Hank's littlest finger drags lazily across the lip of Mats' cock and the small silver cuff covering Hank's wrist bone glances the barest amount against the length of Mats' dick.

Hank slips a third finger into Mats' mouth because he can't *help* it, wants to see Mats' lips red and stretched around the smooth material, wants to see if he'll take it - and Mats just groans, opens wider and *lets* him, even as he starts gasping, laboring for breath.

Hank hums brokenly, appreciatively, sweat trickling down into the hollow of his throat and tickling obstinately there. He can't bring himself to swipe it away right now; both his hands are occupied with more important things. Mats is leaking all over his glove, letting it slide easily up and down his cock, and Hank is a little transfixed by how it glistens under the fluorescent lights.

It's obscene, and Hank presses down with his other hand involuntarily, trapping Mats' tongue against the bottom of his mouth.

Mats chokes once, twice, and before Hank can take his hand away, apologize, Mats' has already knocked his head back against the wall three times in quick succession and jerked fitfully in a full-body shudder, coming hard over Hank's glove and striping his jacket sleeve four inches up.

He takes a while to come down. Hank slides his fingers out of his mouth and traces Mats' jaw lightly with them, spit-damp and leaving faint trails along the stubble only barely apparent on his face. When Mats blinks up at him with some awareness, he digs his thumb into the thin hollow underneath Mats' chin to get his attention. Mats' whole body is still visibly satiated, loose and liquid, but he makes a vaguely inquisitive sound that sounds more like a purr than it does a question.

“Say it,” Hank prompts, demand softened by how his hand insists on touching down Mats' neck and collarbone, feeling out the swoop of bone where he's still warm and sex-flushed under the skin.

Mats musters up a smile that's closer to a smirk, nudges his head down into Hank's hand and mumbles, “Never.”


End file.
